Friday the thirteenth
by medcat
Summary: Dr. Watson was not an overly superstitious man, but his life experiences confirmed that on Friday the thirteenth it was best to remain at home and to stay inside his room. (written by fandom Holmes 2013 in Russian, translated by me)


**Translator's note** : this fic was originally posted in Russian in 2013 by the team "fandom Holmes 2013" on ; the original can be found here: archiveofourown dot org slash works slash 911916 slash. Betaed by lindahoyland. This takes place in the original Russian SH series 'verse (Maslennikov, 1980s)

 **Author's Note:** In England, white cats are considered unlucky, but since the fic is about the Russian version of SH, the cat in this fic is black.

Dr. Watson was not an overly superstitious man, but his life experiences confirmed that on Friday the thirteenth it was best to remain at home and to stay inside his room. All sorts of unpleasant and ludicrous things always happened to him on that day. He was afraid to even imagine what would happen to him if, during his military service in the Eastern colonies, a serious battle had occurred on this fateful combination of day of the week and date.

And that is why when Holmes mentioned after breakfast that he was going to stop by Scotland Yard, and then visit the Wilsons, whose case he was investigating at the time, Watson replied that today, he wouldn't be able to keep Holmes company.

He was very ashamed of telling this lie to his friend, especially when Holmes tilted his head, in his usual birdlike way, and looked at him in his unique astute manner.

"Too many patients?" asked Holmes in such a tone as if he were actually implying something else.

"Yes," Watson turned away, so as not to look Holmes in the eye.

"That's too bad. I was hoping that you could assist me today."

After this remark of Holmes', Watson grew even more ashamed, but it seemed to him that he could not easily admit the actual lack of patients now, after he'd already lied.

Soon, Holmes packed and left, and Watson stayed behind in Baker Street to enjoy the quiet. He picked up the morning newspaper, on which the unlucky date was printed. Well, he decided, nothing so terrible would happen if he didn't accompany Holmes for just one day.

Not having found anything of interest in the paper, he glanced at the grandfather clock: it showed twelve noon.

He got up from his armchair and walked over to the window. Everything outside looked just as it usually did: people were walking down the street, cabs drove past every now and then, and the newspaper man was selling the last few copies of the morning newspapers. The usual calm outside view.

Watson walked around the room for a little while. Then he pulled out his pipe and fiddled with it for a few moments, but did not actually light it. He walked over to the bookshelves, where Holmes kept his files, and smiled at his reminiscences of their former cases.

The clock kept persistently marking the passing of each second with a quiet click.

"The Wilsons don't live in the best neighbourhood," a thought flashed through his mind, making him very anxious for a moment.

"That's foolish," came another thought, "Holmes knows London better than most people. He is an adult, a man who can defend himself."

"I wonder," came the third thought, "what made him think I could assist him today?"

After a few more minutes of aimlessly wandering around the flat, he could stand it no longer and went to his room to get his revolver. Having decided to go after Holmes, he quickly got ready and, almost breaking into a run at times, rushed out into the street.

"Holmes must've left Scotland Yard by now," he thought, "I should look for him at the Wilsons'."

He took but a few steps along the pavement when he saw a cab not far away. Watson waved his hand, beckoning it closer, but the driver not only did not stop-moreover, Watson barely had the time to leap aside, to avoid getting run over.

Memories of past misfortunes, which had happened to him on this date, together with the current incident, left him with an unpleasant feeling. He walked further up the street, looking back and forth, so as not to miss another cab. Suddenly, with a loud miaow, a cat, black as night itself, darted from around the corner and rushed right under his feet, and then successfully disappeared across the street.

Watson barely held back from saying a swear word he often used in the army. Another cab he tried to hail already had passengers inside, and, therefore, drove right past him. Watson stubbornly kept walking.

He decided that since it didn't seem to be in the cards for him to catch a cab today, he should walk faster, and, perhaps, take a shortcut. That's exactly what he did, finding himself on a narrow street, in a neighbourhood definitely less affluent than the Baker Street neighbourhood. Somewhere nearby, someone was cooking pungent-smelling food, someone was quarreling, and a child's crying was heard from another window.

In a narrow alley between houses, he had to walk under a ladder, and one time, he was fantastically lucky: a flower-pot fell to the ground literally a foot away from his head. The owner of the flower-pot poked her head out of the window, looking frightened, but when she saw that it was only her property that suffered, and not the gentleman's head, she calmed down.

"This is absolutely impossible. This is not normal. How much longer is this going to continue?" Watson thought irritably and decided that he'd had enough troubles today. If he paid attention to every flower-pot, it might be too late by the time he reached Holmes.

This thought was propelling him forward, and he started running. Dashing out onto a crowded street, he spied a cab in the distance, and, not wasting any time on further pondering, rushed towards it. Fortunately, nobody collided with him as he ran, and the cab was empty. Even though he had almost reached the Wilsons' residence on foot, the cab greatly helped him to get there faster.

Without even looking at his wallet, he paid the cabman and ran towards the house where the Wilson family lived. He did not even consider how it would look to anyone else: him, bursting into someone's house, without even knocking on the door, searching for his friend, who was-presumably-in trouble.

However, it was a good thing that he did not stop to consider that. Having literally burst into the flat, he discovered Holmes scuffling with a heavyset man dressed in worker's clothes. Next to this man, Holmes looked so thin that it seemed this bear of a man could break him in half. Watson pulled out his revolver and fired up in the air. The scuffle ended straight away.

Holmes immediately took advantage of his opponent's hesitation and twisted his arm backwards, painfully.

"Your arrival was very timely, my dear fellow," said Holmes, breathing hard. "Although I think that I could have overpowered him myself, your assistance was certainly helpful. The police should be arriving any minute now-they seem to have gotten delayed for some reason."

Watson smiled with relief.

"I'm glad that everything was sorted out."

Most of all, he was glad that, despite his original plan, he did not stay at home and instead went in search of his friend. He did not even want to contemplate how he would have felt, if Holmes had not been the winner in this fight, while he was hiding at home, like a coward.

Soon enough, the men from Scotland Yard staff did arrive, and after all the formalities were completed, when the two friends were leisurely making their way home, Holmes inquired,

"But what about your patients?"

Watson sighed. He was very ashamed to have to confess his fears, but he could not continue lying to Holmes either.

"There weren't any patients," he replied, with a guilty look at his friend.

"Is that so? Then why didn't you come with me straight away?"

"You will think it stupid."

"I promise that I shan't laugh at you."

"Today is Friday the thirteenth," Watson replied grimly. "This day has always been an unlucky one for me. And you can't even imagine all that happened to me while I was making my way to you."

He told Holmes the story about the cab, the cat, the ladder, and the falling flower-pot.

Holmes was listening to him attentively, and Watson, having finished his tale, looked at Holmes closely. His friend's facial expression was very serious, but his eyes gleamed with barely-suppressed laughter. And that's when neither of them could hold back any longer-they burst out laughing, like two schoolboys, and were unable to stop for quite a while.

"You know, Watson," said Holmes, after they entered the house and settled themselves by the fireplace. "Friday the thirteenth is now my lucky day."

"Is that right?"

"Yes. My friend, for my sake, gave up on a long-decided course of action, to help me."

Watson very much hoped that the bright flames from the fireplace would mask the blush spreading on his face from a rare, and therefore even more valuable, instance of praise from Holmes.


End file.
